


Hope's Humanity

by MaddieMare



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, F/M, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kamukura Izuru Project | Hope Cultivation Plan, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25766884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieMare/pseuds/MaddieMare
Summary: Hope(Noun, Verb):1. An optimistic state of mind or feeling that is based on an expectation or desire of positive outcomes with respect to events and circumstances in one's life or the world at large2. A person or thing in which expectations and desires are centered around3. To place trust; to rely on a person, thing, expectations or desires4. A feeling of trust, desire; to believe“What hope could the Ultimate Hope possibly give to humanity if it itself can’t feel hope at all? Joy, anger, sadness, likes, and dislikes - nothing! It’s nothing but an unguarded tool without such an essential human factor put into it; like any other tool, it could be used against us if it falls into the wrong hands! You have to direct it, control it, and then utilize it. Fix this mishap, now.”
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Nanami Chiaki, Kamukura Izuru/Nanami Chiaki
Comments: 44
Kudos: 73





	1. prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guess who found Danganronpa.

Dimmed olive eyes are opened to a world encased in brilliant green fluorescent lighting. Indistinguishable silhouettes stand hovering over the pod, their mouths moving inaudibly as a continuous hum rings by his ears. 

The light is too bright - his eyes are burning.

The unceasing humming is too loud - his head is aching.

His breathing starts to quicken. He can hear his heart pulsing in his ears and all throughout his body - he hates it, all of it.

Arms spurt upwards with hundreds of needles embedded into the sickly pale flesh. Plastic IV cords dangle along with the motion as the boy slams his trembling hands over watering eyes.

He wants to scream, and he tries so desperately to make his voice known. But nothing more than gurgles wheezing manages to creep out from his dry mouth. 

The humming stays persistent without pause and the undeafening reverberance of his vital organ rocks his entire form relentlessly. His head is splitting; he thinks his ears are bleeding.

Hands come barring down on his own. His heart rate peaks.

The boy’s sudden kicks are that of mere temperamental infants and his fearridden cries are pitiful puffs of spattered spit - easily suppressed.

His hands are pulled away with ease and placed back by his side in the pod. Something is hastily placed over his eyes. He can still see light, but just barely. 

His eyes don’t burn - that is good.

Fingers delicately wrap around his head, lightly brushing his cheeks in a circular motion. There is prodding against his ears before the humming is entirely cut off. Complete silence save for the rhythmic pulsing within him, but even that is slowly steadying down. 

A plastic mask of sorts is set firmly over his mouth and within seconds he can breathe.

Up and down, a perfectly steady tempo. 

His eyes flutter shut.

Darkness. Comfortable darkness swallows him whole.

Dimmed olive eyes are opened to a darkened ceiling. He lays on a simple, sheetless bed in a dark small room. 

He hears nothing but his own breathing and the subtle creaking of the mattress.

He sees nothing but the rough outlines of the room’s corners regardless of the room’s complete lack of a light source. 

This is fine. 

His arms are no longer littered with needles and dangling IVs. The only proof of their presence being the hundreds of tiny dots along his arms. The boy raises his hands up against the high ceiling. He can make out each individual scar along with the outline of the room just fine despite the illogicality. He sees pale sickly hands speckled with countless tiny dots reaching upwards towards the white ceiling in the dark small room.

He blinks just to confirm.

The boy struggles to sit up. His arms nearly gave out just before he settled into a kneeling position of the mattress. The springs justled as he shakily moved his weight.

His fingers became entangled within the thick strands of dark locks that was his hair. The silken strands were soft in his hands, they ran smoothly through his fingers. His hair was also really long.

That was fine. He liked his hair. 

His previously worn medical gown from within the pod has now been replaced with a plain set of grey sweatpants and a shirt. 

They were fine. Comfortable even, just like his hair.

The boy looked around the room. He sat in the center of the empty room on top of his bed. The walls and floors of the dark white room were spotless, save for the wall exactly across from him.

On the wall across from his was a simple outline of a door. 

Needless to say, his curiosity was piqued. 

He fumbled with positioning his legs off the edge of his bed, but once done, he was already felt greatly fatigued.

Tentatively, the boy placed one foot upon the floor and pushed himself up.

The boy immediately collapsed to the ground face first. 

His face stung.

He tried to push up with his arms, but his trembling limbs quickly failed.

He tried with his legs, but they wouldn’t even move. A small twitch was the most he could muster.

His breathing quickened.

He writhed on the floor; clamping his nails against the smooth concrete and wriggling his toes.

His body would not cooperate. 

He couldn’t get up. 

He tasted iron.

He cried.

Weak cough-ridden sobs bounced off the small room’s bare walls.

It was loud, but he couldn’t stop.

It smelled like iron.

He couldn’t breathe. 

The door was thrown open. Bright lighting flooded the small room. The boy whined, sore hands slapping onto his face. 

Soft, gentle hands cupped over his own, squeezing them tenderly. The hands move to rest his head upon a warm surface - a lap. 

A wet cloth dabs at his wet cheeks and bloody lips. He feels refreshed.

Hushed foreign tongue flies overhead and figures circle around him. 

The hands run through his hair, slowly and soothingly.

This was nice.

His breathing has evened out, the coughing subsided. The boy’s chest rises and falls.

The volume of the room is acceptable for his sensitive ears. He doesn’t mind the incoherent tongue.

The pain has dulled. It is still there, he can feel it faintly, but it is manageable. 

He can still taste the iron though. He does not like the taste.

He was tired.

His eyes flutter shut.

Darkness. Comfortable darkness swallows him once again.


	2. development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, can't promise rapid updates like this all the time, so just enjoy this "new story hype" for as long as it lasts.

His name is Kamukura Izuru, humanity’s Ultimate Hope. That is what he is told by his teachers and his doctors. 

Upon his reawakening, the boy had been checked over and escorted through pristine hallways via wheelchair to a separate, smaller room holding a table and his temporary language arts teacher. The room was bright, but the doctors had prescribed him sunglasses for the time being until his sensitive eyes could adjust accordingly to the varying levels of brightness. 

Izuru had difficulty with the assigned work at first. He babbled and stuttered the letters his teacher would point at, failing to mimic their pronunciation. But in just under minutes, Izuru went from stumbling over short and easy children’s nursery rhymes to breezing right on through short excerpts from complicated literary pieces like _Finnegans Wake_ without pause. He hadn’t even noticed that most of these passages were written within a different language.

His teacher smiled. The man told him that he truly was humanity’s shining Ultimate Hope. 

His doctors took him back to his room. Izuru could sense their satisfaction as they traversed the halls in silence.

He was relieved.

Izuru now sat waiting patiently on his bed, doctors and nurses came in and out, occupying themselves with preparing an IV cart and passing out folders and files along to each other. From what he could gather, despite their best attempts at keeping their voices low, they were preparing an intravenous feeding for him while he rests. Whatever task they had planned next for him, it seemed, will be physically difficult for his under-used body.

Izuru admits that it is bewildering to be able to understand everything being said around him so suddenly, and at such hushed whispers? And to think he was incapable of understanding the human tongue less than an hour ago. 

His sunglasses are removed as the nurses got to work inserting the feeding IVs. The remaining doctors simply watch by the door, their hands still busy with passing papers and sharing studying gazes at the boy being swarmed by bustling nurses. Izuru tries not to flinch when the needle digs into his forearm. It feels familiar, but not in a good way.

The nurses and doctors leave once the IVs are in, allowing Izuru a moment’s rest. 

But… he’s not tired. 

Olive eyes find themselves retracing the same ceiling over and over again. His room is not dark currently, one of the nurses brought in a lamp, natural to help aid with the IV insertion. The light is fine on his eyes, so he pays it no mind. 

Izuru recounts the passages and nurseries he’s read, but eventually rereading them from memory becomes… a bit boring. He _is_ rehearsing the same thing over and over again, after all, even if he tries to spice it up by translating the works from language to language; no matter what, it’s all the same. And even reciting them backward gets a little dull after a short time, unfortunately. 

He knows this isn’t normal. Normal people can’t do this.

But he is Kamukura Izuru, humanity’s Ultimate Hope. That is what he is told by his teachers and his doctors. 

And that does sound like an important title, so maybe that justifies how he can do things normal people can’t. 

Familiar gentle hands run through his hair. 

Izuru blinks. 

A woman smiles warmly at him from her chair beside the bed, she must have brought it in herself. 

He likes her smile.

She introduces herself as the former Ultimate Psychologist. She tells him that she will be his personal therapist. 

_Psychologist. (noun): An expert or specialist in psychology._

_Psychology. (noun): The scientific study of the human mind and its functions, particularly those affecting behavior in a given context._

Izuru rubs his eyes. The woman giggles. 

They talk back and forth. Each vocalizing their own questions and answers, though the former Ultimate Psychologist, Tasukite as she asks to be addressed, asks the most questions which Izuru answers dutifully. 

“How are you, Izuru?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Are you in any pain?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Is any of this bewildering for you? Are you in distress in any way?”

“No, I’m mostly just…confused - and curious - about everything.”

Tasukite tucks away the loose strands of hair running over his face behind his ear as they talk. Izuru watches as her fingers twirl the dark locks and bring them out for his view. It’s a simple, pointless task since the locks will simply come undone at the slightest of movement, but he appreciates her efforts. Her nails lightly trace his scalp as her fingers move back and forth. His body relaxes.

“You are someone very special, Izuru. Do you know that?”

He nods. He’s been told on numerous occasions as of today. 

The psychologist smiles. “You are humanity’s Ultimate Hope. You may not think so now, but in the future, you are going to do great things for humanity’s future.”

Her hand cups Izuru’s cheek, her fingers lightly petting his pale face. “But you are still a child, Izuru, you have so much to learn, so much to understand before you can achieve your destiny.” She pauses, observing his curious olive eyes. “Izuru, you must promise me that whenever you feel sad, angry, or just overly confused - if you need someone to talk to you, just say my name and I will come. Your wellbeing is our main priority, so please don’t keep anything inside, it will only make those feelings worse.”

Izuru nods. “I’m confused.”

Tasukite giggles again. She has a nice laugh. “Well, tell me why you are confused.”

The woman braids his loose strands as he talks, nodding along as she winds the locks in and out, ending the braid with a flimsy tie. She tells him that next time they meet, she can make a much more durable braid. He likes that idea.

It is not long after that the doctors and nurses return into the room. His IV is removed and the cart is pushed out. Tasukite disappears at this time as well. 

Izuru’s a little sad she didn’t say goodbye, but he can forgive her. He knows she’ll come back. Once he’s done with this next task, he’ll say her name and she’ll come back. 

The wheelchair from before is brought in once more. The doctors tell him that he will be undergoing sessions of physical therapy until he has cognitive-motor skills of all his limbs. 

_Physical therapy. (noun): The treatment of disease, injury, or deformity by physical methods such as massage, heat treatment, and exercise rather than the uses of drugs or surgery._

Izuru was starting to get a headache. 

He allows himself to be aided by the nursed into the wheelchair. Once securely seated, he is wheeled off once more through the vacant hallways for his next task. 

Physical therapy… is something he does not grasp onto with immediate ease as his previous mental-focused task. 

Yes, he is able to regain the mobility and usage of his arms and hands, but that feat alone takes about an hour and a half to fully achieve through persistent and grueling exercises. The disappointment emitting from the observing doctors is almost suffocating. He hates how his insides wrenched in heavy dread.

He doesn’t want to be a disappointment.

The main struggle that the physical therapy has presented Izuru - of which now has Izuru’s progression in a roadblock - is the reacquired movement of his legs. 

They just won’t cooperate. 

His physical therapist tries simple leg exercises which only result in the minimal twitch of his toes. She tries to guide him through parallel bars while on a moving chair, feet flat on the ground. She tells him to use only his lower soles to slide along the floor. 

He fails.

There is zero progression on his lower limbs.

They try for five hours. 

He is returned to his room. 

Izuru hears the physical therapist under her breath just before they leave.

She is disappointed in the Ultimate Hope.

She is disappointed in him.

His face tightens. 

His doctors are no better. The halls feel more desolate than ever as they walk. They don’t look down at him once, they don’t acknowledge him. They speak angry rants to each other with single glances.

Izuru could hear his heart. He felt like he was suffocating. 

His eyes water.

His doctors are all disappointed in his failures. 

He is unceremoniously dumped back onto his bed and left alone in his room; the lamp isn’t even turned on. Just outside his door, he can make the faintest of conversation between his doctors. 

Their words are hissed, they are displeased - disappointed. 

The doctors are disappointed in him, in each other, in themselves. They rant on about miscalculations and errors that could have been so easily avoided in hindsight. 

His doctors talk about starting over. 

_Starting over. (verb): To make a new beginning._

The doctors want to make a new Ultimate Hope. 

They don’t want him anymore.

He’s tired. 

He takes a step.

He’s exhausted. 

He takes another.

He wants to sleep.

And another.

He’s in pain. 

And another.

His name is Kamukura Izuru, humanity’s Ultimate Hope. That is what he is told by his teachers and his doctors. 

He reaches for the door.

He doesn’t question this. He has no reason to doubt them.

The door opens.

He wants this. 

His doctors are smiling.

Izuru ignores the pain in his legs. He ignores the fact that they’re nearly giving out. He ignores just how much his legs shaking, giving their all just to support his husk of a body.

Izuru ignores how wet his face is from drool, snot, and tears. He ignores how much his throat hurts from crying, from screaming for his life. 

Izuru ignores the burning in his body. He ignores the splitting headache racking his brain. He ignores the tingling feeling all over his body, as if someone else were in his skin, just dying to crawl on out to the surface.

Izuru ignores how drained he is - physically and mentally. He ignores just how much sweat has coated his sickly pale skin or how much it’s frazzled his once smooth, silky hair. He ignores his blurring vision as he tumbles straight forward on the ground.

The doctors look down at him, proudly. 

He wants this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Changed the psychologist's name.


	3. schedule

Izuru is given a schedule the next day of which he had to abide by each and every day. In addition to the timetable, he receives a pocket watch of which he must memorize within the next three minutes. The unit of time, at least of that in Japan, seems simple enough to understand from his brief observations of the antique device. As he is escorted out of his room, Izuru can still hear the locket ticking away in his mind, counting away the seconds.

It is currently five after five as he is being led out. He will arrive to morning disinfection in exactly five minutes. 

Izuru’s steps stagger every now and then, his body still adjusting to his underused limbs, but the boy doesn’t dare stop no matter how much his joints start to ache. 

He can’t show his flaws again.

Izuru arrives at five-ten to the sanitation room. He is told by his doctors to strip and to enter the awaiting shower. The water, a lukewarm temperature of about a hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit, begins to drizzle down his face and nude body when he walks under the faucet, washing away any lingering grime and bodily fluids down the shower drain. 

If he closed his eyes, Izuru could almost imagine himself outside in the rain. 

_Hyetology. (noun): A branch of meteorology that deals with the study of precipitation._

_Precipitation. (noun): The action and/or process of precipitating a substance from a solution; rain, sleet, hail, or snow falling out of the sky._

Izuru winced as he drew his eyes to the sputtering drain. Murky water spiraled around just before being sucked up by the shower gutter. It is mesmerizing in a dull way. 

His overgrown hair hung with a new uncomfortable weight against his back. The dark strands slipped over his eyes, obscuring the uninteresting environment around him. 

The water continued to sprinkle down, rattling together an unharmonious melody against the stainless shower tiles. But even if it lacked proper unity, the sound was considerably pleasant to his ears. 

_The rain is raining all around us,_

_It falls on field and tree,_

_It rains on the umbrellas here,_

_And on the ships at sea._

_Rain, by Robert Louis Stevenson_ , his mind supplied effortlessly. 

Izuru closed his eyes with a soft hum. His lips twitched under his dangling hair. 

He wondered what the rain would look like out at sea, standing over the rainfall atop a rocking ship swaying with the sea’s powerful waves.

A sudden drone of hissing joined the water’s steady downpour as disinfectant clung onto Izuru’s bare body. Suds soon accompanied the soiled water tunneling down the gutter. He tried not to flinch even when the chemicals stung his skin. 

When Izuru exited the shower, he smelled like an array of harsh antiseptics. His nose twitched in displeasure.

The boy was immediately slipped into a smaller chamber where hot air swiftly dried his drenched body. He was handed a newly folded shirt and sweatpants to change into. These too carried an unpleasant aroma, most noticeably bleach.

Now dressed and fully sanitized, Izuru is then marched back out into the hallway for his first lesson of the day at five-thirty in the morning.

Izuru warily eyed the medication cups resting upon the medical cart’s tray. 

He’d been told by his doctors that he would need to follow a strict supplement-based diet for the foreseeable future. Said supplements were specifically designed to help solidify the many procedural changes and body modifications done to him during his… anesthesia-induced surgery, as they put it.

He tried to hide his unease when he couldn’t recall anything from before his reawakening from the surgery. Perhaps it was just a symptom from the operation. Surely he would remember in due time. Izuru didn’t dare to ask the doctors, they seemed rather vexed when he started asking too many personal questions regarding himself; and besides, they were already busy enough with setting up the IV cart. 

Reclined on his bed with the feeding IV back on for his scheduled resting interlude, the boy observed the variety of tablets separated in each of the lined up cups. He grabbed the first one in the row and examined its content. Within it laid a small flat green pill with a plain white capsule. 

Izuru downed the two pills with ease, though they did leave a dry and somewhat bitter taste in his mouth, but he could handle such aftertaste.

He still had about an hour before his third and final task of the day, so Izuru took his time taking the organized medication one by one. His two prior assignments today were similar to that of yesterday's literary readings - they were all literacy-focused assignments; common everyday tasks performed by common people. 

His first task of the day focused on writing. His teacher had him rewrite provided excerpts and documents in the different languages they had listed for him. Izuru was also supplied with various writing utensils which he was expected to utilize during the lesson. Pens, pencils, and brushes from all kinds of ethical background he could already list from the top of his head. 

The assignment in itself was a bit… underwhelming in all honesty. He attempted to make it a bit more interesting by mirroring the writing, but his teacher did not approve. He won’t be attempting that again unless strictly instructed.

But overall, the lesson wasn’t all that dull. Of all the literary techniques, Izuru enjoyed working on calligraphy the most, especially with the brushes. Japanese calligraphy may be his favorite cultural medium altogether though. The kanji felt more like pieces of art rather than simple Chinese characters. Each stork was vital and essential in shaping the character into a kanji. 

Once the lesson was concluded, his written work was tucked away in folders and taken away. In their place, a pair of headphones attached to a bulky electronic device was set on the table. His teacher traded seats with another man, presumably his teacher for this next lesson. Said teacher had Izuru put on the headphones and switch on the box. 

His task was to listen to the audio and translate what he heard. The brief explanation itself made the assignment seem extremely dull… but then the first audio clip played. 

Izuru jolted at the intense pitch. His knees slammed up against the table, nearly sending the box tumbling to the floor. The boy nearly yanked off the headphones right there and then, but the expectant gaze of his teacher deterred him from making any move towards the electronic headwear. Izuru simply ground his teeth together until the audio clip finally ended, though the stinging ringing did not, unfortunately. 

His teacher asked him to translate the audio.

He could not.

His teacher marked something on his clipboard with a somber face. Izuru lowered his head in shame.

His teacher had him play the same audio file again… and again, and again until the piercing frequency slowly softened into something decipherable. The boy was able to interpret a majority of the audio before the lesson concluded. His teacher informed him that they would continue the rest of the uncoded audio the next day. 

When Izuru removed the headphones, something warm and wet trickled out from his ears. 

_Tympanic membrane perforation: A hole in the tissue that separates the ear canal from the middle ear._

His doctors looked him over, but deemed his ruptured eardrums to still be intact, or rather, they seemed to have already healed themselves - the damage wasn’t too severe, they claimed, so rather than waiting days for the small tear to heal, they merely waited several hour; two hours and fifteen minutes, his mental clock chimed in. His doctors looked down at him with shared pleased applause. Izuru straightened proudly under their gaze. 

The nurses cleaned up his blood-clotted ears and he was sent to his room without another incident. 

The ordeal left Izuru confused… and yet thankful. He wouldn’t want to inconvenience his teachers and doctors with such trivial mishaps like a simple perforated eardrum. And seeing as his healing was far superb from that of the common people - all thanks to his doctors and their surgical performances on him - he could now successfully become humanity’s Ultimate Hope! 

And as the Ultimate Hope, he could not allow himself to have any errors. He wouldn’t.

Izuru placed the final cup back onto the tray as he swallowed the last of his pills. His mouth was dry and his IV drip has long since been empty, and he was bored. 

Luckily, it was already half-past twelve. His doctors were waiting for him as the nurses gathered up the medical tray and IV stand.

Excitement bubbled within Izuru’s stomach as he followed the white-clad men. He couldn’t help the small skips in his steps as they wandered down the halls. The nipping sensation in his limbs and joints only encouraged his more lively motions. Izuru catches a snicker from one of his doctors.

Whatever task they had planned for him next, Izuru will exceed their expectations. He will, he _has_ to, as the Ultimate Hope, he will not fail. He can not fail.

He hopes he doesn’t fail.

The final assignment of the day was a simple one. He was told to run full-sprint on a treadmill until he was told to stop. 

So Izuru ran until the lesson ended. Five and a half hours. He can barely stand. He was drenched from head to toe in sweat; his skin all sticky and clammy. The world seems out of focus and all he can hear is his rapid heartbeat. 

But he did it. He didn’t stop once. 

And he feels great. 

_Adrenaline. (noun): A hormone secreted by the adrenal glands, especially in conditions of stress, increasing rates of blood circulation, breathing, and carbohydrate metabolism and preparing muscles for exertion._

No, not now, he doesn’t care about that right now. He wants to move - he wants to run! 

_Like the Ultimate Track Runner, or the Ultimate Parkourist, Gymnast, Acrobat, Weight Trainer, Bodybuilder, Athlete—_

Izuru felt his body twitch where he stood, he was getting bored waiting for the doctors and his teacher to finish talking, he had to move - standing around and doing nothing was just sheer torture!

It was so boring!

The boy ran the treadmill in a gym of sorts, so of course there was other equipment scattered about the area. A set of wall-mounted pull-up bars just off to the corner of the gym caught Izuru’s waning gaze. 

A giddy chuckle slipped from the boy’s drooling lips as he hoisted himself up on the bar, his sweat-coated hands having difficulty fully grasping the metal pole. That in tow with his tingling arms shuddered from the sudden use and he nearly toppled onto the floor right there. Izuru flipped himself up and over, finding himself now dangling upside down from the bar. He could see his long hair piling up on the floor.

Izuru nearly choked on his spit as he took in the upturned gym. Even his teacher and doctors were upside down! Could he change the physical boundaries of reality as the Ultimate Hope by using his mind?!

No, no, that wasn’t… no, he just flipped upside down on the pull-up bar. There’s no way to change—

_“The world is wrong side up. It needs to be turned upside down in order to be right side up.” - Billy Sunday._

What? What does that even mean?! Maybe he’s just been hanging upside down for too long—

_Hanging upside down for a few minutes can procure increased blood pressure and a decreased heartbeat. There is also increased pressure on the eyes as well as—_

_Upside down. (adverb, adjective): with the upper part where the lower part should be; in or into an inverted position; inverted—_

“Get down from there, boy!”

Izuru drops to the floor unceremoniously. He lands on his back rather than his head, thankfully, but the pain is still unpleasant. The boy tilts his eyes up at the doctor glaring down at him with a twisted scowl. Izuru’s breathing picks up slightly.

“What are you doing?” The doctor barks. “You were clearly instructed to stand and wait. Any physical activity you perform is to be thoroughly documented. You are _not_ allowed to run about however you please. If you damage yourself, it could set us back for months! You may think of yourself as a God with these talents and enhancements of yours, but you cannot go about defiling yourself however you please! Just the right spot, just enough pressure and you can be permanently damaged. 

“You may be the Ultimate Hope,” The man begins after a pause, giving the boy a long, scrutinizing glare. “But even you have your weak points. That is why we are testing you - studying your abilities, your limits. If you go about damaging yourself now, we will not be able to make you into humanity’s hope. Your selfishness and recklessness will bring humanity into despair.” 

_Despair. (noun, verb): The complete loss or absence of hope; to lose or be without hope._

No more hope… but, _he_ is supposed to be hope, the Ultimate Hope, right? No more hope… means no more Kamukura Izuru.

“It won’t happen again!” Izuru scrambles off the floor, nearly tripping over his hair in the process. His whole figure racked with uncontrollable tremors as the boy tried to stand up straight. “I’ll be good - I won’t be selfish! I-I won’t disobey instructions, I’ll do everything right; I promise - I swear!”

The doctor’s expression twists in disgust, planting a step back from the unstable boy. 

Izuru panics. 

He grabs hold of the man’s nearest hand, clinging to it in desperation.

“Please, _forgive me!_ ” 

A sickening crunch fills the spacious gym, followed immediately by an agonized ear-splitting howl.

_Scream. (noun): A long, loud, piercing cry expressing extreme emotion or pain._

The scream itself doesn’t phase Izuru, at least not as much as the mangled palm in his hand does.

_The definition of mangling or mutilating hand injury is imprecise. The origins of the term provide a useful start point. “Mangled” has its origins from old French meaning “cut to pieces,” and mutilating from Latin meaning—_

Rich warm blood trickles down in waterfalls onto the clean gym floor. Izuru can feel the crushed bits of bone moving jaggedly against his red-stained hands as the doctor struggles desperately against his hold.

_Each step in the assessment and treatment of a mangled extremity is of utmost importance. These include radical tissue debridement, prophylactic antibiotics, copious irrigation with a lavage system, stable bone fixation—_

He should probably let go but… he can’t move. Olive eyes watch the continuous downpour of red as multiple different hands reach out to try and free the writhing man from him. There’s frantic babbling amidst the consistent screaming, but Izuru can’t register them.

_Hands from Hell erected just at the entrance of Wat Rong Khan, The White Temple, in Chiang Rai, Thailand. Hands of the lost and sinful reach out from their prison in hell, grasping at the upper world’s purity in such a futile endeavor—_

Not when there’s already so much noise in his head.

_The first surgery is crucial to ensure good vascularity to the salvaged tissue, prevent infection, and achieve bony stabilization. Re-look surgery and definitive reconstruction—_

_A cubic inch of bone can in principle bear a load of 19,000 lbs. (8,626 kg) or more—_

_And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and: cast it from thee: for it is profitable—_

_In a self-defense situation, when your adrenaline is surging, the ability to break a small bone, causing intense pain and possibly shock to your attacker—_

_"He who puts out his hand to stop the wheel of history will have his fingers crushed—_

He’s spazzing out on the floor. Izuru doesn’t remember collapsing or falling into a seizure. A thick trail of foam oozes its way from the boy’s agape jaw, along with curt gurgled croaks that seem painful for the throat. Unfocused olive eyes roll back into his throbbing head. It feels like he's drowning - though mentally, at the very least. 

A sudden weight is thrown onto him, rough hands press him down closer to the tainted gym flooring. His face is pushed into the puddle of blood by accident. He really hates the taste of iron. 

Something cold and sharp and very, very thin is jammed ruthlessly into his neck. The overlapping chaotic noises intensify for a moment, but then, it all finally stops.

Darkness. Unbearable darkness swallows him whole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that the longest a person has run without stopping was 350 miles? That's about 3.3 days! I thought that was a cool fact.


	4. restraint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening nonstop to Another Day of Sun from La La Land and I just couldn't resist.
> 
> https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-PpAPWitr63OHeTfOxETnIOjyDgRoDi5/view?usp=sharing
> 
> Sorry for any choppiness, first time editing with the program.

Trickling back into consciousness was a rather difficult endeavor for Izuru. Now, attempting to successfully  _ stay _ conscious was another trek in of itself.

Upon his first breach into a state of awareness, Izuru could only focus on how tired and heavy his body felt. Every blink threatened to send him back into the stagnant abyss of slumber. Was his vision always so blotchy? He… he couldn’t really think… 

He tried to sit up on several occasions, but his stiff body refused to move off the soft surface of what the boy assumed was his bed. He was in his room… yeah, that made sense. Why else could he easily recount the ceiling’s surface despite his blurry vision?

Izuru manages a gurgled giggle, an array of spit decorated his dry lips. He was so smart.

That simple act alone seemed to have exerted the extent of his already low energy, as Izuru would find himself fluttering awake once again. 

He would wake up repeatedly here and there at any random moment. Sometimes, figures would be bouncing around just beyond the corner of his vision, muffled voices of all ranges funneling in through his ears, of which felt stuffed to the brim with cotton. Most of the time, however, Izuru would wake up alone. 

The boy preferred rousing to the presence of the disembodied voices, they were a sort of leverage for him to grab onto through the burdensome fog clouding his mind. He wanted to stay awake, just long enough to get an understanding of what was going on. He was so confused and… tired… 

Izuru would have called for  Tasukite but… his numbed mouth has failed to cooperate with his muddled brain. The best his tongue could produce were slobbering burbles. The voices, of which he could only guess were those of his doctors, never paid heed to his verbal attempts. 

The mental clock ingrained in Izuru’s brain seemed to have come to a standstill early back when he first stirred into his murky consciousness, that or its rhythmic ticking was simply lost so deep in his hazy head. Either way, Izuru had no knowledge of the passage of time during his brief conscious periods. Has it only been ten minutes of wavering wakefulness, or has he been bound in his room for ten years? 

More importantly, why had his doctors and teachers left him on his bed like this? Why was he being ignored? Were they behind?… did the… make him all tired and heavy?

No… stop thinking, it’s… his head hurt… 

This time, when Izuru awoke, his mind felt… clearer. The boy wasn’t being wracked with harsh delirium, but there were still tendrils of fatigue holding him down. He could move his limbs at the very least, only to find them fixed to his side. Something was… holding him down. Tight and unyielding medical restraints.

A light is flashed into his eyes. Izuru attempted to turn away, but his head too was being held securely in place.

His throat constricted before a hoarse shriek managed to bypass his clenched jaw. 

Hands come down and pry his eyes open - he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. Olive eyes stared up at the burning brightness until tears we conjured to moisten them. The piercing light and cold hands were finally pulled away, and Izuru remembered how to breathe. 

Footsteps hurriedly dance around the boy, the passing voices are more hushed and tensed than before. His breathing and mind steadying, Izuru parts his quivering lips. 

“Whhh…w-whha…?” 

A sudden bout of disorientation swiftly courses itself through Izuru’s system. His body instantly falls limp and a new weighty fog floods his brain. The boy’s words die in his mouth as his tongue ceases.

Hands move towards him again, or rather, towards his bindings. The durable restraints slip off his body, but he doesn’t feel any lighter. That is until his body is literally lifted up. 

Izuru’s slack figure is eventually hauled onto an awaiting wheelchair. His head bobs around ungraciously during the tedious venture, making the already light-headed boy nauseous. A generous concoction of slobber and digested medication sputter out past Izuru’s lips as his limbs are tethered to the wheelchair.

His drooping head is yanked up - Izuru whines at the stinging tug of his hair caught up in the hand’s grasp - and a rough cloth is pressed against his face. With a quick scrub, the fabric is pulled away. Izuru’s face is clean now, but his pale skin seems to be taking on a reddish hue to accommodate the cloth’s burning swab.

Izuru lets his head drop back down as the hand departs. His face hurts. 

Long dark hair obscures the boy’s shifting surroundings as he is pushed out of his room. The silky strands stick to Izuru’s face, getting themselves caught on the slivers of drool creeping from his parched lips.

It’s only when the wheelchair comes to a stop that Izuru bothers to look up, or at the very best, lift his eyes off his lap. The room is plain and simple, just like all the other comparable rooms he’s been previously escorted to for his tasks. But this room is by far the barest he’s been brought to. The only thing present within the room is a slick office cart with a computer screen resting on top, which someone was skittishly fumbling with.

“Mr. Mitarai, so you’ve made your decision. I must say, you chose wisely.” 

A malnourished boy, roughly around his own age, hastily twists his head from the screen. His hazel eyes are heavily bagged, an obvious sign of the utter exhaustion racking the brunet.

“Y-yes, Mr. Ito, sir,” The boy, Mitarai, stammers out. “It… it is an honor to be helping Hope’s Peak with the creation of Ultimate… Hope…” The other’s words falter as his hazel gaze meets Izuru.

Izuru lets his head fall, overexertion threatening to take him under once again. He musters a wheezy whine as he struggles against the tempting drowsiness. 

“Yes well, I believe it’s best we proceed with the procedure immediately.” There’s the shuffling of feet around him as he is pushed further into the room. “You have the completed video with you, Mr. Mitarai?” 

“... yes, sir. I followed the instructions as exactly as they were written. Matsuda assisted me with the more… complex techniques - I-I only have a brief understanding of the basics, really.” 

“No need to humble yourself, Mitarai,” A feminine voice eases into the conversation. “Your sensory techniques come on par with that of the late Ultimate Hypnotist’s very own, if not more effective and long-lasting.”

Izuru’s head is pulled up once again, but not violently by his hair like before. Olive eyes desperately try to stay open, watching curiously the underweight boy tinker with the computer with aid from one of his doctors. Cautious fingers gently pry his unfocused eyes open wide, and Izuru only has a second to react before a cold pair of speculums are shoved in.

The boy lets out a started yelp as he tries struggling against the cold metal. Though his efforts were valiant, the best he could do against the restraints was squirm in place - much to the inconvenience of his doctors. A hand holds his head steady, putting significant pressure on his temple. This only encourages Izuru to up his tiresome thrashing, he even manages to muster a feral shriek in this panicked fit. 

“Hey! Y-you’re hurting him!” He hears - Mitarai, was it? - cry out anxiously to the occupant of the hands. Their hold falters, momentarily, before one of his doctors sends to them an expecting glare. 

“It may be a bit uncomfortable for him, but he’s not in any pain; so don’t you worry about a thing Mitarai!” The cheerfully-feminine voice is sweet enough to procure a headache.

“If the subject is not willing to cooperate, it is best we increase the dosage. Wanatabe, up the dosage to an additional ten percent.” 

“Yes, sir.” A voice replies behind him. Izuru can faintly make out the wheels of a medical cart squeaking over.

“U-umm… don’t you think that’s a bit… excessive?” Hazel eyes meet Izuru’s own wavering pair once again. “He already seems… pretty out of it.” 

“And risk our own personal safety? It may be high on sedatives now, but that  _ thing _ is a constant danger if it continues to be left unchecked. Dr. Okada has lost his left hand alone, I don’t want to imagine what other casualties will occur by the subject’s own misconduct of its talents and strength. Now, Mr. Mitarai, the videos, if you please would.”

Mitarai and the rest of his doctors get back to setting up the computer. Another cumbersome weight of drowsiness hails over Izuru once again. Exhaustion jabs away at his mind, urging him to fall back into the stillness of sleep. And yet, obvious discomfort - from his pried opened eyes and the tight, oppressive restraints keeping him in place - kept him inches away from the mercy of unconscious bliss. 

The parade of doctors eventually depart from the computer screen and exit the room shortly after. Izuru catches a brief, final glimpse of the meek Mitarai. The other boy bit his lips as his own exhausted hazel eyes linger on Izuru before he too exits the room.

His wheelchair is adjusted closer to the computer’s screen. Quick hands curtly check over the speculums and his bound restraints. 

His eyes are… really starting to burn now. The accumulating tears consistently lathering his drying organs does little to quell the stinging pain. Izuru tries to control his sporadic breathing; tries to take it slow. He doesn’t want to add on even more inconveniences for his doctors to worry about - he’s already been the cause of so many disappointing dilemmas. 

The computer before him flickers, snapping Izuru to its attention. The room is empty, save for him and the computer screen. When had the remaining doctors left?

The screen goes white, a small countdown at the bottom corner slowly drops to zero before finally, a video starts to play. 

The video is a clip of rough, lineart animation of a girl standing idly in a blooming meadow field; a sad piano tune plays softly in the background. The art is pretty, Izuru muses, but it doesn’t look finished, there isn’t even any color - though, perhaps it’s a stylized choice? 

The video is indeed interesting, but Izuru can’t help but feel confused. Why was he being shown this video?

The girl’s back is turned, her face completely obscured from the frame. The shot lingers on a close-up, her long curly hair flows freely in the open wind. Her body manner seems relaxed, at ease. Izuru almost feels jealous. 

Her shoulder’s suddenly jostled and her head slowly turns to the side. But before her face can be revealed, the video cuts off.

Izuru stares dumbstruck at the now empty screen. Was that it?

But it wasn’t. 

Another counter starts counting down, just the same as before, but when the counter hit zero, something was… off. Overlapping the animation was strange, rhythmic visuals of colorful shapes and patterns. At times, there even seemed to be brief flashes of words sprawled across the screen, but those would vanish seconds before the boy could register them, leaving his feeling nauseous. The previous piano melody was replaced with a surreal pitched tune. 

Even if Izuru’s eyes weren’t fixed to the screen, he wouldn’t find it in himself to turn away. The video was just… there was something mesmerizing about it —

Izuru awoke on his bed. 

Disoriented, he shakingly sat up, his fingers gripping the sheet with unfamiliar vigor. His limbs were free from any bindings, but subtle soring pains - no doubt developing bruises - remained in place of the prior uncomfortable restraints. 

So… it wasn’t all a dream… was it?

Izuru blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings. It was his bed, this he knew but… it was incredibly dark. He could barely see the faint lines of the room’s sturdy door. Warily, the boy looked up, but rather than the all too familiar layout of the ceiling wall above, the ceiling wall he has so memorized to a fault from what felt like days of being confined to his bed, Izuru saw nothing.

His room was pitch black.

It was in the silence amidst the room’s darkness that Izuru realized something else was wrong. For once, his mind was blank. He could think without the troublesome burden of funneling out the thoughts and ideas that spawn from simple actions and observation, but he wasn’t thinking like he should; his mind wasn’t right.

His mind was blissfully simple, basic - normal.

And the boy acted accordingly to his unfamiliar situation. He screamed.


End file.
